


bent on broken wings

by auxanges



Series: the Father, the Son, and the (un)Holy Ghost [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Demonstuck-ish, Dubious Consent, Glory Hole, Humanstuck, M/M, Priest Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 10:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: “No one comes here free of sin.” That silk ribbon of a voice, again. Are you leaning forward? “I certainly didn’t.”That tone is definitely suggestive. Outwardly, you recoil; inwardly, your spine curls. “Even for a priest, that seems a little presumptuous, wouldn’t you agree?”He laughs. It is a hungry sound. “Not that kind of priest.”





	bent on broken wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Shame_Basement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shame_Basement/gifts).

> eats this prompt for breakfast

The doors are unlocked, so you are not technically trespassing. You keep this poor excuse on the backburner as you let yourself in to the bowels of the church. Without the stirring of congregation bodies, it's unnaturally silent: your thoughts are so loud that you're tempted to take a page from the world's book and tell yourself to shut up.

It is well past service hours. Whatever lingering daylight squeezes through the stained-glass panes is contorted into shadowy webs, twisting the faces of saints. At the end of the aisle, though, there's a different glow—one of the shrouded confessionals tucked behind the altar flickers with candlelight, tinged a heady bronze.

You trip on nonexistent cracks in the stone floor, your shoes finding every imperfection along the way to the booths. There should really be signs or something, or—even better—countermeasures to hazards. You'll mull it over later; the biggest hazard is why you're here. At least, if your suspicions are correct. 

At the confessionals, you reachfor the door of the lit one, stop, and open the door of the second booth instead. It closes without so much as a rusty creak.

What are you even doing here? Should you call out? You came here to seek answers and all you've done is cram yourself into a closet-sized cubby like some, if you'll pardon your loose vernacular, colossal dipshit.

Then the curtain between you opens with a whisper of fabric. Through the grate, you catch a shock of hair, translucent as fog, barely grazing the top of the clergy collar. 

"I was wondering when you'd come," he says. His voice is impossibly rich, for all its softness. _Honey-soaked_, you think, before chastising yourself for assigning brazen epithets to a figurehead.

Alright, let’s do this properly. You are in a booth, after all. “Um. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Compared to him, your voice is thin and sticky in the back of your throat. “It’s been—hold on, March, April—”

“I already know,” he interrupts. 

You can’t help but sputter. “Beg pardon?” 

“No one comes here free of sin.” That silk ribbon of a voice, again. Are you leaning forward? “I certainly didn’t.”

That tone is definitely suggestive. Outwardly, you recoil; inwardly, your spine curls. “Even for a priest, that seems a little presumptuous, wouldn’t you agree?” 

He laughs. It is a hungry sound. “Not that kind of priest.”

The bait is obvious, the fruit so low it’s dragging along the church floor. You bite anyway: “Then what kind are you?” 

“I’m the kind of holy man you need, Kankri.”

You shiver, dumbstruck, glancing sharply at every shadowy corner of the confessional. “How—”

“You ever give much thought to your soul?” the priest continues, unbothered. “The way you leave it just barely exposed. A tease, really.”

His words pool in your core, little echoes of _exposed_ and _tease_ stretching your earlier plan taut. “A tease, Father?” 

“Lesser beings would shatter your soul to pieces and scatter them in the nearest river. You and your father, you both have such fragile souls, so susceptible to the vices of man.” 

So your father was here. This emboldens you. “What did you do to him?” 

“What he wanted, my son.” Your collar is tight. “What you’ll find you’ll be wanting, too. Understand? I know you.” 

There’s a second grate, lower, near the edge of the chair. You hook two fingers around the handle and pull it open. 

“See? One step closer.”

“To what?” Your question strains at the edges. “I hate to get in the way of self-expression, but why can’t you just give me a straight answer?” 

The priest laughs again. “I’m more a man of action. You want to know what your father beheld? What he longs for when he wakes up in a cold sweat long after the spirits sleep?” His voice, a murmur as soft as the curtain against your temple, has never been louder. “Want me to open that soul of yours, Kankri?” 

Your chest tightens. Your pulse thrums. “Yes,” you breathe.

“Kneel,” he says. “The ground is consecrated. Let it welcome you. Let it free you.”

You slide off the chair; your knees protest as they hit the floorboards, but you feel your shoulders loosen, strings cut. Above you, he continues speaking, his homily as his eyes. 

“Let in your absolution. You know what to do.”

And you do.

You’re not—again, forgive the brashness of your tone—you’re not stupid. There are not a hundred reasons for a hole at hip-level, and there are not a hundred denominations who preach…what is he preaching? He’s right, his words are already evaporating into morphological fog around your ears. The confessional is warm, and the divider’s opening is warmer. You gravitate to it, ready. 

Of course he’s already hard. You rub your cheek along his length, drawn to the heat like you’ve been cold your entire life. What had he said about you missing something?

“You’re too pretty to waste time thinking about your soul rather than letting me have a taste.”

_Oh, _he thinks you’re pretty. Any quips you may have had about being treated like an appearance-judged commodity disintegrate; you’re flooded with hot gratitude, a rush of giddy endorphins at his acceptance of you. 

No. At his _choosing _of you. 

You press an open-mouthed kiss to the head, letting your tongue drag along the underside of his cock, somewhere between cautious and tender. His sigh is euphoric, and you sink into it easily. 

“You were made for this, Kankri,” he croons, when you ease him into your mouth, “you were made to be opened up and shown to the world.” 

For all you know, he’s speaking in tongues: you’re scarcely being shown off, cooped up in this booth. 

But the thought—oh, it comes so easily, permeating your lungs and mind with that rosy haze. The doors and dividers vanish, and the white noise of the congregation—their eyes, their rapt attention—fills whatever parts of you his dick hasn’t. You’re nailed to the floor and weighed down with new purpose. Fuck whatever you came here for. This, _this_ is absolution. 

Adrift, you swallow the priest deeper. You taste sweat, heavenly. Somewhere above you, he says your name, intertwined with praises and invocations until you’re fit to burst with whatever he’s cast on you. Your own arousal makes itself known, straining your pants. You keep your hands against the walls of the confessional, obedient. Penitent. Fitting for the booth, really. 

You can picture the priest’s eyes, too, vivid and burning like the candles outside. They pierce your bones and guide more of him down your throat until your eyes water and you tighten around him, welcoming him into the deepest parts of you. You think he’s thrusting into your waiting mouth, or maybe you’re trying to get to him, or maybe a combination of the two. 

“Fuck—”

He swears, rough and dark, and you drink him up like a desert-dweller. Salvation is bittersweet. 

You shake like you’ll rend apart at the seams, unfocused, and your hips jerk against nothing as you come. 

Never in any four walls, stained-glass or no, have you felt more alive. 

Outside, the candles are extinguished. And when you stand on unsteady legs and lean against the door to leave, the confessional next to you is empty. 


End file.
